That You Assume You Know
by Meredith T. Tasaki
Summary: Gibbs, despite all appearances, knows there could have been a different bloodstain on the windows of that car. Spoilers for, uh, the one where Tony's on the lam with the guy... (sorry)
1. Driving Home

That You Assume You Know

Summary: Gibbs, despite all appearances, knows there could have been a different bloodstain on the windows of that car.  
Rating: PG-13, mostly language Disclaimer: Do not own NCIS. Or thinks Sears. Or l33t. No disrespect intended to Mr. Earnhardt.  
Notes: Hope it's not confusing, switching tenses and person. I'd like to note that one of my father's many favorite things to yell at drivers who can't hear him is "Where'd you learn to drive, Kmart!" I wasn't sure Kmart was around in Gibbs' time, so I switched the stores, and added a particularly busy time of year to try to account for his suicidal boldness. I only just learned that the Tony-having-rich-family thing wasn't just a fanfic ploy, but nonetheless, any errors in his backstory are almost certainly intentional.

(-)

He watches him in the rearview mirror and what could, what would have happened plays through his mind like a shady barroom melody in the back of his head. Not everyone can multitask like this, he knows. It's a testament to his great skills as a driver.

"That's a highway exit sign, not a green flag, Mr. damn Earnhardt-" Tony grouses.

Jealous. "I shoulda let 'em take you to the hospital, let you find your own way home."

"Whatever." Gibbs doesn't understand the tone of his voice, doesn't give it too much thought.

-You think the blood would have been mostly on the windshield, still dripping onto the dash, onto the floor, forming pools that would be starting to clot. Maybe some on the windows too; guy cut pretty wide. The backseat would be empty; art guy would probably have hightailed it as well. The window would have been stained with blood; you'd have had to open the door to see inside.-

"He was really kind of a sweet guy," Tony says quietly.

Gibbs snorts but doesn't have time to say anything before Kate says, "Really?"

"Yeah," Tony says, "kinda dorky and a bit loveable when he wasn't being a royal pain in the ass. Till he pulled a knife on me."

"Huh," Kate says, and falls silent.

"Damn Stockholm or something," Gibbs seethes. Tony either doesn't hear or doesn't answer.

-You probably would have called his name as you opened the door. He wouldn't have answered. He hadn't been wearing a seatbelt- you ought to take this opportunity to lecture them all on that- so he would've fallen forward. Maybe the horn would be blowing. Maybe his forehead would have fallen into a pool of his own blood.

Or (this image won't get out of your head, less plausible though it may be) maybe he would've fallen- or been pushed- sideways, maybe he'd be sprawled across the front seat. Maybe even ben placed- nothing is too sick for multiple-murderers- maybe your eyes would've fallen on his chest, that ridiculous plaid flannel, and been drawn inexorably up toward his head, his throat.

Ducky mentioned that he did it fairly neatly, with a forbidden sort of skill. Cut the vessels but never the vocal cords. They'd have a voice if they didn't bleed to death. Quickly. And violently.-

"Nearly messed up my record," he mutters.

"Well that's too goddamn bad," Tony snaps.

Everyone gets twitchy after days like this.

-You don't know what you would have done. In this dream you stagger back. You would want to run up again, check for a pulse, but you would probably be struck still and dumb by all the blood- all the blood. You've seen blood before. Usually you don't mind it. Don't blink at scenes much worse than this. But you would know whose blood this was, know in whose veins it belonged, know with a strange cold certainty that its dereliction of duty meant a man you knew was dead. A man you cared about, to some extent. In a context that was impossible, all wrong.

Whether you staggered back or lurched forward to shake him, order him to come back with that voice he'd always feared and obeyed before- either way, Kate would come up beside you. Look at his throat. Whisper, oh my God. If you'd staggered back, you think she'd probably lean in and check his pulse and call Abby or 911. If you were shaking him yourself, she'd take a couple of unsteady steps back and fish for her cell phone, maybe rush back forward to join you after she dialed. Ask you if he's okay as if you'd know. Because you would. And always have. You are the authority.-

"At least we found the art," Kate says.

"And beat the bad guys!" Gibbs points out.

"I bet it was some damn diplomatic thing," Tony mutters. "Gonna return it to the new President or Prime Minister or whatever the hell they're supposed to have now an' put it on CNN. Returning to the Iraqis their past glory. Some bull like that."

"You're the one who begged for this assignment," Gibbs says angrily, laying down his law. "You think it was wrong now? You wanna change your mind? Work somewhere else?"

"NO, goddamn it!" Tony cries. "I just don't like how it turned out. Am I not allowed to not like how it turned out!"

-He didn't think it would turn out like this," Ducky might say, holding back tears after the paramedics came and played their part in the official rites. "I'll bet he didn't think it would turn out like this."

The LEOs you'd called out to inspect the other warehouse would have come too; the other Feds wouldn't have arrived yet. They'd be walking around, talking, taking their pictures, probably drinking thier coffee, and you wouldn't be able to say anything. Or maybe you'd scream at one or two of them once in a while, maybe almost attack one before Kate and someone else held you back. Ducky would read out a few sparse details with a sort of unsteady detachment, and the only part you'd register would be the part that confirmed what you knew already: a few minutes, a few seconds earlier, and...

You wouldn't have failed.

Someone would ask if Ducky should really do the autopsy. You'd tell 'em to go to hell, and maybe Ducky would second you. They'd take him away, and you'd think of McGee and your perverse glee at forcing him to provoke the Secretary into lodging a complaint with the Director. It'd feel- deserved, like it hadn't before.

One more failure.-

There's quiet, again, and Gibbs wonders at the look of hatred and desolation on Tony's face as he looks out the window, at the trees rushing by. He turns his attention to passing a car, and they yell like he's trying to kill them.

"Mother of God, Gibbs!" Kate cries, gasping. "Are you trying to KILL us!"

"I had plenty of room!" Gibbs defends.

"Plenty of room- something I've always wanted to ask you, boss. Where the HELL did you learn how to drive!""

"You dissing my driving skills, Dinozzo?" Gibbs demands.

"No, I've just always wanted to know where you learned your l33t driving skills," Tony says, with what sounds to Gibbs suspiciously like irony.

"Leet?" he questions mildly.

"Computer language," Tony explains. "A sort of shorthand, I mean. A lot of gamer geeks use it."

"..Yeaah," he says. He hears Tony start to add something else and holds up a hand. "Anything that involves geeks is usually beyond my comprehension. I don't want any technical details. Don't tell me any more."

Tony doesn't.

-You've gotten to another point of uncertainty. What would you do then? Go back to Washington and spend a sleepless night at the office? But he'd still be at large, then, wouldn't he. And you couldn't let him get away. So you'd send Kate home, if she'd go, and find the son-of-a-bitch yourself. Maybe the LEOs would find him again; had the first time around. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get away.

But you really think you'd find him, and quickly. In a dark alley, where he couldn't get away.

No, probably in broad daylight with a couple witnesses across the street, so you couldn't do anything but whisper threats and epithets in his ears as you cuffed him and bang him up a little as you shoved him into the backseat of the car. Ask him threatening rhetorical questions as you brought him in.

Or would you bring him in? Would you risk it? Would you risk bringing him in damaged- or dead? Would you take him out to the woods and slit his throat? Decide that would be too quick and take him to a cabin you know to make him feel a little of your pain before you took him out? You can see him, begging, cowering, on his knees, feel and hear the wind through the forest as it crosses your path, see the green and the brown and his face as you pull the trigger, the sound of birds hurrying away...

Would you really care enough to risk your job, your life?...-

"It was Sears," he admits, though it's some time since the question has been asked.

"December 24th?" Tony asks.

"17th," he defends. Waits to see if he can get away with it. "Through 31st."

"I knew it!" Tony says, as Kate incredulously asks, "You remember the dates?"

"Well, the last one was New Year's Eve," he explains. "And the first was a birthday present."

"You learned to drive as a birthday present?" Kate asks.

"Yes," he replies. "...For my father."

"Got sick of driving you around all the time, huh?" Tony says, grinning. "Yeah, my mother did, too. Made me learn to drive the minute I turned fifteen."

"I thought the age was sixteen," Kate says.

Tony shruggs. "I wouldn't put it past her. I had lessons since I was thirteen, and I thought it was so cool, I never asked."

-You'd have to call his mother, too. You wouldn't be able to avoid that. Wouldn't really want to. You take responsibility for your- mistakes.

Her number's on file; you know how to find it. So you'd call her. And- dammit, you know Tony's talked about his family before, but you've never listened, and you can't remember a single thing he's said. You do know he's rich. You know he had a father, you think he wasn't exactly perfect. Think he might not be alive, but you wouldn't bet the boat on it. You have a feeling he's not an only child, but you wouldn't even put five bucks on that. Know very little about his mother, except she'd who you're supposed to call if things go wrong.

You have got to start listening to these things.

So you'd call her. And you have no idea who she'd be. Maybe some long-suffering saint on the home front, praying for her little Tony as he confronts danger every day. Or maybe a self-absorbed diva, addicted to shopping. Maybe a knitter. Maybe a lesbian. Maybe a knitting lesbian. Maybe one of those stereotypical Italian mothers who eternally insist on feeding you. Maybe not even Italian. Maybe none of these things. Hell, maybe all of the above and more.

Either way, you'd call her, and you'd think of something to say, like you always do. And you're certain she'd start crying. She wouldn't be the person you call if she wouldn't start crying. Or hell, maybe she'd be angry! You have no way of knowing this. It's really kind of shameful.

You'd go to the autopsy, too. Would have to, to make sure they nailed the little bastard. For other reasone, too.

You can't really think about that right now.-

"Do we really have to write our reports today, boss?" Dinozzo asks.

"Oh my God," Kate says. "And that Secretary of Whatever will probably want to talk to us, too."

"Yep," Gibbs says cheerfully. "So Dinozzo, be on your best behavior."

"Aw, shit," he says, and sulks for a moment.

Gibbs' cell phone rings, and he answers it. For no reason, Kate lunges at the wheel like a madman. "Gibbs."

There is a pause. "I don't have a damn VW!" Gibbs yells. "It's the wrong number! Stop friggin' CALLING me already!" He hangs up and throws the phone down, hard.

"VW?" Tony asks.

"Ah, some idiot must've put an ad in the paper saying I've got a VW for sale," Gibbs says, disgusted. "They won't stop calling. I put McGee on it."

"I didn't know you had a VW," Tony says.

"Yeah, Tony, that might be because I DON'T," he explains, with no real patience. "Someone put the wrong damn number in their ad."

"That, or someone put your number in a fake ad on purpose," Tony notes.

Gibbs shrugs. "I've got McGee on it," he says.

Tony loses interest and slumps back in his seat to stare out the window again.

"Wait," Kate says. "Without knowing where the ad is even from, isn't that kind of... impossible?"

Gibbs thinks about it and shrugs. "Possibly."

"So, basically you're setting him up for helpless failure?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way."

"Right," she says, and looks out the window.

-There would be a funeral, almost certainly, and of course you'd have to go. Maybe together. Kate there beside you, looking out the window the whole trip. McGee, behind you, quiet except for the occasional unwelcome remark or question. Abby, frighteningly subdued, having accomplished the "black" part of traditional funeral apparel but probably not the style; there'd probably be leather or buckles on her person, and not just on her purse. She wouldn't bring a purse. She's not the purse type. She, too, would probably say things, though less often and awkwardly than McGee. You and Kate would be silent.

Kate would cry at the funeral, you think. Abby for sure. Ducky, probably, maybe McGee too. And you... You don't know what you'd do. You don't know.

Would it be traditional, you wonder? Maybe Catholic? Or something more secular, more non-traditional? Did Tony talk about things like this in his will? Did Tony have a will? The sheer number of things you don't know about this man is crashing into you like a cartoon anvil, because you'd really thought you had him completely pegged.

How much else don't you know about him? And how much more powerfully would this have hit you had he died?

If he had died, can you even imagine your regret-

He looks at him in the rearview mirror. Sullen. Unkempt. Looking- probably a lot like he feels. He thinks he may be holding back tears. Bites back the protective urge to berate him for that.

He realizes he may be somewhat lacking in his managerial skills.

"Exit's coming up," says Kate, sounding something between tired and exhausted. Gripping the door very tightly.

"I can see the sign," he says. "I'm not blind, you know."

Tony makes a derisive sound from the backseat, which Gibbs decides to ignore. He cuts from the far lane of traffic onto the exit ramp and vows to change his ways. To be nicer sometimes, to pay more attention, because a day might come soon, despite all their training, when he loses one of them forever.

He doesn't know, like most people around him would guess, and a few, like Tony, know outright, that he will never, ever change. He's not capable of it. Or if he is, it will take far more than a near miss to bring that potential out. It will take something so shocking that they can hardly even imagine it. He'll remember his promise for a few days, but for all practical purposes, he's forgotten it already.

"Hey, Washington," Tony says, sounding marginally more cheerful.

"Yep," Gibbs says, merging into traffic with unusual grace. "We're going home."

(-) 


	2. Postlude

Summary: Post-postep blush It doesn't end, like it does in the movies, when you get home. Tying up loose ends.  
Notes: I like the way the first one ends, and it has a nice structure, but I couldn't help wanting to write all this other stuff too... So I split it up so the first part could be self-contained, and this could just be an addendum, a reaaally long clarification.

(-)

A few minutes after that, Gibbs parks the car in a space that most motorcycle riders would probably have dismissed as a bit small. There is a necessary delay as Kate realizes that there is no way she can open her door more than about an inch, and thus is forced to clamber into the backseat while describing to Tony in explicit detail exactly what will happen to him if she finds him looking at her ass- and she will find him. She falls into the seat beside him and takes a moment to catch her breath. She then turns to glare at him, ready for battle.

But Tony isn't looking at her. He's looking out the window. And either it's the most clever act she's ever seen him put on (and one she decides, upon reflection, he couldn't possibly be capable of), or he actually wasn't paying attention to her. She realizes he seems abnormally remote; usually he's always underfoot, itching to provoke a fight. But not today, and maybe she should have expected that of him.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I just- I can't help thinking. If maybe it had turned out the other way. It came pretty close, you know. Don't know how close. I mean- you know what would have happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"What would have happened. You know, when you got there."

"I haven't thought about it," she says. If it's a lie, it's only because it's an incredible understatement; for the entire drive here, she has been dedicating a fairly stunning amount of mental force to loudly not thinking about it. Despite that, however, she knows that in the back of her mind, she has.

"I have," he says. "I didn't want to, but Gibbs- the way he's been acting this whole trip, I couldn't help it, it just kinda- came into my head, and it wouldn't go away, you know what I'm saying?"

She nods.

"He would've come up, he would've looked in the car, and he would've said 'Dammit!' and kicked the tires. I guess you'd probably call 911 or something, and he'd be standing around yelling about how damn stupid I am. Then the cops'd come up, and he'd yell at them for a while. Then someone'd catch the guy, and you'd go home, and you'd tell him to go get some sleep, and he would. Then it'd be awkward for a few days. Maybe, like, a couple days after the funeral, he'd bring in some new guy to torture and he'd act exactly the same as he always had."

"No he wouldn't."

"Oh, come on! You think it would really break him up? Maybe for a couple days or so, but then he'd move on! He hates me!"

"He does not hate you!"

"He doesn't like me all that much!"

"I think he likes you."

"Really."

She squirms a little. "Kinda."

"You can't seriously think he'd be all that distraught."

"Of course he would be. He, uh, he would've lost an agent."

"Seriously," he says. "Think it through."

Against her will, she does. Realizes the scenario she'd half-formed in her mind is a little melodramatic. Thinks he'd at least cry or something, but not in front of her. Would be edgy at work for a while- but, that would be unprofessional. She realizes she hasn't even considered that he might take off work, because he wouldn't. She still thinks he's wrong about the degree of his detachment, but has a hard time denying that he is, in the essentials, probably right.

"It wouldn't be that bad," she says, and to her it sounds unforgivably feeble.

"Maybe," he says. "But it's still really, uh..."

"Depressing?" she suggests. "Demoralizing?"

"Yeah," he says. "If it's any comfort, I think he cares a little more about you."

"Yeah," she says sarcastically, "that helps a whole lot."

"It kinda makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing here," he says. "If he puts us though all this shit and he doesn't even care about us that much. Makes me wonder why the hell I think it's worth it."

"Like you're suddenly looking at your life as if you don't live it," Kate says. "I've had moments like that."

He's silent for a moment. "Ah, I'll probably get over it," he says, and opens his door.

Kate slides out after him and they walk together to the office, full aware that Gibbs will probably ask them what the hell they've been doing.

"It was really nice of you not to stare at my ass today," she says, a moment after the elevator starts to go up. "Very civilized, very decent. I could get used to it."

He grins lopsidedly. "Yeah, I'll get over that one real quick."

The elevator dings, and he goes out. Rolling her eyes, she follows him.

"What the hell took you so long?" Gibbs demands. "Some sort of hanky-panky? Kate. I thought you had better taste."

She tries to think of her normal reply, because she knows she'd usually find a way to agree and insult Tony further in the process. For some reason, she can't; she searches briefly for something and comes up completely empty.

Gibbs notices she's just standing there, lost for a reply. "Kate?" he questions.

She figures Tony will bail her out by saying something stupid and/or macho, but he's obviously not up to it today.

"...Sure," she says finally; smiles a brief, insincere (but still beguiling) smile and seeks shelter from Gibbs' confusion at her desk.

(-)

Even later, after Gibbs goes home, Tony is sitting at his desk and staring at nothing. McGee walks by; after a second, he waves his hand in front of Tony's face.

"Hey," Tony says by way of greeting, after jerking his head up like it had been a gun instead of a hand.

"Hi," McGee says. "I hear you had an exciting day."

"Yeah," Tony says, and stretches. "I hear you did too."

"Yeah." McGee smiles. "I, uh, was horrendously impertinent to a Secretary and spent the rest of the time trying to do something impossible."

"Yeah, I heard about the VW thing," Tony says. "Kinda ridiculous of him to expect you to find the person who called in that ad. I mean, it could have been anywhere. And even if you found the ad, it would be almost impossible to figure out who put it there."

"Yeah," McGee agrees. "It was terrible. I was scared to death that I wouldn't figure out what it was, and then he'd kill me."

"I don't think he'd actually kill you," Tony says. "Maybe cut off an arm, maybe a leg..."

"Maim me a little? I, uh, wouldn't be surprised. That's why it was such a relief when I found out what happened."

"You, uh, found the ad?"

"No, uh, not really. But I know who did it."

"Really? Wow, McGee, that- how did you do it?"

"I almost didn't. But then it occured to me."

"What occured to you?"

"Maybe it wasn't a coincidence. Maybe it was an evil scheme."

"Evil?"

"Well, maybe not so much evil. After that, it was fairly easy."

"Hmm." Tony nods.

"It was kind of hard to figure out who would have done that, though."

"Couldn't find a motive?"

"No," McGee says, "it was more an elimination thing. There were so many people with motive that I was almost worse off than when I started."

"Right." Tony nods. "So who did you check first?"

"Uh, never tell anyone this, but Abby was so amused by the thing that I thought she might have done it. But she didn't."

"I know. What I mean is, when did you check my cell phone?"

"After, uh, Ducky, those guys from the FBI, those two guys in Jacksonville, those Army recruiters, that Air Force colonel, and the ex-wives. One of them was selling some furniture, so, that threw me off for a while."

"That many?" Tony says, impressed. "This worked even better than I thought."

"It was my fault for not remembering that almost none of those people would've known his current cell phone number," McGee admits. "But still, I was sure it couldn't possibly be you. Even when I found the number you'd called, I thought it must have been something else. But I was wrong."

"Huh," Tony says. "Are you going to tell him?"

McGee shrugs. "I'm not sure. I know he's going to ask me, and I don't know if my terror and respect for him are going to outweigh my, uh... my sympathy."

"Sympathy?"

"...It was- well- it was a very good joke."

"Right."

"Maybe he won't ask me. If he doesn't, I probably won't tell him. But I can't make you any promises."

"I wouldn't want any," Tony says. "Thanks, Probey."

"Yeah." McGee smiles, hesitantly, halfheartedly, because he does not like at all what Tony has been doing to him. But he can also see that it's a chain, and they're not the ones who started it. They're just doing what Gibbs has done, like some sort of abusive, dysfunctional family, and it honestly freaks the hell out of him. But no one else sees anything wrong with it, and so he keeps his peace. Probably there's nothing really wrong with it. It's probably just him.

"You should probably go home and get some rest," he says.

"Yeah," Tony says, "I think I will. Night, Probey."

"Goodnight," McGee says. And wonders, as he watches him leave, if he can, in the end, do a thing.

(-) 


End file.
